Shuck and Jive
by Ramarama
Summary: In which Lydia and Peter fight monsters and serious snark ensues. Rated T for violence and mild swearing. NO romance, just ass-kicking. Because it's about time Lydia got to do that! Chapter Two: Stiles.
1. Chapter 1

Lydia marches as quickly across the parking lot as she can manage in her heels. She's not sure how he did it, but this is Stiles' fault. When this is all over, she is going to get Scott and Isaac to hold him down, and she is going to yell at him. A lot. Until she feels better.

"If I didn't know you so well, I would think you were trying to get away from me, Lydia."

She raises her chin but doesn't slow. "If I didn't know you so well, I'd think you were a raging psycho who should have stayed dead. Oh wait, I _do_ think you're a raging psycho who should have stayed dead."

Peter Hale trots up next to her, grinning unrepentantly. "Aw, it's a good thing we both use sarcasm to hide our true feelings or I'd be offended. Which one's yours?"

She frowns. "Don't you have a car, or do you just specialize in materializing everywhere you're not wanted?"

He shrugs and leads the way to her new purple Mini - a replacement for the crazy-deer car from her parents. "Ten years in a coma means a really out-of-date license. I could drive if you wanted, but," he sticks his lower lip out in a faux-pout, "you probably wouldn't like it."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Totally useless, I knew it. Can you at least use Google Maps like a functional human? Undead werewolf? Thing?"

Peter slides easily into the passenger seat. "Anything for you, pumpkin. Where do you want to start?"

It's petty, but she calculates the necessary velocity, revs the engine, and squeals out of the parking lot fast enough to throw him against the side door. "Stiles gave me an idea. I need to make a pit stop first."

He braces a hand against the dash and frowns at her. "Oh, by all means. Let's go on a shopping trip while my nephew and your friend rot in the hands of a crazy substitute English teacher slash dark druid. This is the _perfect_ time."

She snorts. "It's for your own good - something had to be done about that shirt, it's truly tragic. Deep vees are for cast members of Jersey Shore only."

Peter puts a hand over the neckline of his tee-shirt and gasps in mock-indignation as they rocket into the parking lot of the sporting goods megastore by the freeway. "Now I _know_ you're joking. This shirt brings out the blue in my eyes, everyone says so. There's no need to be jealous."

Against her will, she snorts as she puts the Mini in park and pulls out the keys. "Sit," she says, pointing a stern finger at him. "Stay."

She hurries into the store feeling moderately better, and almost doesn't frown when he's still waiting in the front seat when she gets back. But he eyes her purchases with a raised eyebrow as she rips open the packing on the hunting knife. "Don't tell me you're going to filet me before we even make it to the big finale, because that would be such a let-down."

She rolls her eyes. "Please. And get blood on the leather? Hold this." She thrusts the baseball bat into his hands so she can settle the knife in her purse where it isn't going to accidentally stab her arm, then turns the key and peels out of the lot.

He manages three whole minutes of silence before running a hand over the bat. "A Louisville Slugger. How very patriotic of you."

"Ms. Blake tried to strangle me last time. I think I owe her a good old-fashioned ass-kicking. I could have died in _English class_. That would have been mortifying."

Peter nods sympathetically. "They'd probably have put up a plaque with a poem on it or something equally quaint. But what makes you think a baseball bat is going to do you any good if Mr. Sour Alpha Derek and the Boy Wonder couldn't stand up to her?"

She blasts around a corner and heads for the reservoir border. "This stupid banshee crap has to be good for something besides getting possessed by dead people - no thanks to you. Plus Derek is clearly stupid for a skirt, and Scott's just plain stupid." She pats her purse confidently. "I don't think I'll have that problem."

They pull into the parking lot at the trailhead, and Lydia turns the car off. It's dark and quiet in the woods. She palms the keys and flips the headlights off. The stillness is eerie. "Do you think she knows we're here?"

Peter climbs carefully out of the car, head cocked towards the trees. "She has Derek and Scott. She knows we'll come for them. I don't exactly think we can hope for much in the way of surprise."

"Well give me the damn bat, then." She feels better with its solid weight in her hands, even though she gave up playing sports around the same time Jackson grew into his jawline. Swing it and hold on, what's so hard about that? Allison can keep her weird compound bows and throwing stars; Lydia Martin has a baseball bat and a really big knife.

As she follows Peter into the woods, she considers that if this killing-evil-monsters thing is going to be more common, she will maybe have to reconsider her wardrobe choices. Even block heels are not proving great for trail-walking in the dark, and her tights are definitely snagged. Allison rocks the boots and skinny jeans look, but Lydia's not sure she can resign herself to such a fashion come-down. Maybe those wedge sneakers Gwen Stefani wears? This will need more thought.

Peter holds a hand up to halt her, and draws a deep breath through his nose. "We're close. Quietly now."

She grips the bat tighter, and stares into the darkness as if it will somehow magically part and reveal their quarry. Ahead, Peter sniffs the wind again. She's absurdly glad he's here, for probably the first time in _ever_. He might be weird and creepy and she definitely still wants to bleach her brain out after having him in there, but if nothing else, Peter Hale is _smart_. Not smart like she's smart, of course, but smart in a devious, crafty, Stiles Stilinski way. He obviously has an ulterior motive for all this helpfulness post-resurrection, but so far that ulterior motive involves being on their side. Derek is strong and fast and Scott is strong and good and Isaac is strong and has great cheekbones, but so far that has amounted to exactly diddly, because the Darach and the Alphas are stronger than all of them. But Peter, Peter doesn't want to be on the losing side. Since he clearly can't join the Alphas or the Darach, that means he needs to make sure their side doesn't lose. Lydia can get behind that. Plus, he has claws.

Of course hell will freeze over and Scott will be valedictorian before she ever admits any of this.

Peter holds up a hand again. "There. Over on the right." He's leaning close to her ear to whisper, and she suppresses a shiver, remembering the way he'd smelled sitting on the floor of the Hale house, covered in dirt and ash. He flicks an eyebrow at her, but doesn't comment.

Ahead of them is an old barn, dark but for a sliver flickering light coming from under the corrugated metal door, and when she strains her ear, she can hear that weird chanting from back in Ms. Blake's classroom. "It's her."

Peter nods. "And the Alphas too. Because why not? Everything else about this sucks." He rolls his eyes. "Okay. How are you at fake-bird-call-signals? I prefer a Dappled Scrub Jay, but since it's night, I might go with a Northern-"

"Please. This is not 'Survivor: Beacon Hills.'" She pulls out her cell phone, lights the screen, and flashes it twice. After a moment, she sees an answering flicker from her left, and another directly across from them. "There. No embarrassment needed."

He scowls. "Do you hate fun?"

"Since infancy." She hefts the bat. "Ready?"

They edge forward; Peter first, then her. His claws are out.

Across the clearing from them, Allison steps carefully out, carrying a _truly_ massive bow, with Stiles guarding her back with a tire iron in one hand, and some sort of baggie in the other. She hopes it's wolfsbane. Or mountain ash. Or at least Comet, for chrissakes. Isaac approaches from the other side, already wolfed-out, and it looks absolutely ridiculous in that goofy grandma sweater. Hipsters are so _weird_.

Peter grabs her arm lightly, and shoots her a look like he knows her mind is wandering. She glares, but he keeps his hand there as they ghost quietly towards the barn. This is desperate, this is stupid, they're all going to get killed, and _Peter Hale is touching her_. Lydia might even punch Stiles when they get out of this. And Derek. And Scott. Men are _the worst._

And then they're poised outside the door. Peter and Allison make some indecipherable military hand signals at each other, and everyone tenses. The chanting is louder, echoing around the clearing, and Lydia knows it has to be now. Peter braces himself, rears back, and plants a ferocious kick on the rickety door. It crashes backwards and then they're charging into the barn and people are snarling and running towards them, so she takes a swing at the first large thing in her bat-range, which turns out to be Kali.

The barefoot Alpha whirls and snarls at her, shaking out a broken arm that heals before her eyes. Lydia grips her bat tighter and snarls right back. "Come at me, you fugly cow!"

Kali smiles and leaps for her - she's faster than Lydia expected, and easily dodges her swing, but then Peter appears from nowhere and jumps onto her back. They go down in a rolling pile of claws and Lydia takes quick moment to survey the barn.

Scott and Derek are tied in the center of circle of torches with... Ms. Morrell? Ugh, she's _never_ going to counseling again. There's a five-fold knot traced under them and they're all slumped at unnatural angles, but she can see Derek's eyes are open. When he catches her attention, he jerks his eyes to the left and she sees a flicker of black disappear around the corner.

Allison is battling Deucalion - why hadn't they thought of that earlier? Arrows, obviously a weak point for him, duh. Isaac is facing off with the twins, while Stiles works frantically at untying their friends inside the broken ring of mountain ash. They're not _winning_, but they definitely won't even have a chance at that unless they can take down Jennifer Blake.

Peter staggers back in front of her, wiping blood from his mouth before turning back to Kali. "I have never been more disgusted by feet in my life. What is it with this bitch and shoes?" He leaps onto Kali's back with a roar.

In all of this craziness, it's nice to know she can still laugh, even if it's at Peter Hale. "I'm going after the Darach," she yells at him, pointing with her bat in the direction Derek indicated. He meets her eyes over where he's currently attempting to gouge out the Alpha's neck, and for a moment she's reminded not of the terrifying monster in the leather coat who had walked towards her on the football field, but of the surprised and guilty look he'd given her when she showed up at the Hale loft two days ago. He looks... worried for her? Oh no, that shit is _so_ _not happening_. As if he knows what she's thinking, he rolls his eyes and punches Kali hard in the temple. "Hurry your ass up, then!"

She flips him the finger and runs for the opposite end of the barn. Around the corner is an open storm cellar door, and Lydia slows to a careful stalk. Behind her, she hears Derek roar, which must mean he's free and able to help out and that's all the thought she'd going to spare for everyone else. She calculates where eyelevel will be on the ground, hoists her bat to the appropriate angle, and slowly descends the steps.

It's dark and musty down there, and the only light flickers through from to torches above. The chanting has faded, and even though she knows her friends must be making plenty of noise, she can hear her own rapid breathing. She consciously holds her breath, peering into the shadows. Nothing. Just dusty farm equipment and some plant life. She cautiously releases her breath, hearing it gust through the dank air. And someone else takes a breath in.

Without conscious thought, Lydia whirls, swinging the bat with all her might. It _shatters_ against Jennifer Blake's hand.

The woman smiles. "My, what exciting extracurriculars you have." She lunges forward and grabs Lydia around the neck. Her grip is supernaturally strong and she easily lifts her off her feet. Lydia hits her ineffectually with the remains of her bat, but Jennifer whirls her around and the useless weapon flies out of her hand. Then there's a familiar cord wrapped tight around her windpipe cutting off her air and she can feel blood on her neck and oh god Sheriff Stilinski's not here this time she's going to die-

But then her brain kicks back in, because dying or not, Lydia Martin has IQ of 147 and she _learns from her mistakes_. The Darach is trying to put something in her mouth - um, _ew_ - it tastes like a plant? She remembers that Danny ended up in the hospital with mistletoe poisoning, but she's choking, she can't spit it out and try to breathe at the same time. She desperately scrabbles in her purse and one hand closes over the handle of the knife and the other on the blade but she doesn't care about a little blood when she can slip it under that damn cord and it bites into her neck but that's fine too because after a moment of struggle she's _free._

She stumbles but stays on her feet, one hand holding out the knife towards Jennifer. "Stay back."

The woman laughs. "Oh, Lydia. You always were my best student."

A voice says, "That's _my _line," and Peter leaps from the stairs to tackle her. They're rolling around on the floor and she can't get a clear shot until he manages to get the druid in a submission hold like something out of one of those gross MMA fights that Jackson used to make her watch. "Now, Lydia!" he wheezes.

She approaches carefully, feeling the woman's baleful eyes on her. She's never killed anyone before. This feels like a big thing. But then she thinks about all the bodies she's seen, all the bodies she _didn't want to see_ and she squeezes her eyes closed and plunges the knife into her teacher's chest.

It stays there, quivering, for a moment, and then the Darach laughs. "You can't kill me, little banshee. You don't even know what I am." She jerks out of Peter's hold and rolls to her feet, but he leaps on her again and the knife goes flying, and how exactly are they going to kill her now?

Their scuffle bumps the remains of her bat, and it rolls across the ground to bump gently against her feet. It's just the handle now, with jagged shards stretching out where the end broke off.

Lydia Martin has an IQ of 147 and she learns from her mistakes.

When she approaches them again, Peter is looking a little worse for the wear. His perfectly-coiffed hair is full of cobwebs and sticking out at all angles, and there's blood running from his forehead. "Would you hurry it up, Martin? I don't exactly have all night, here."

She hefts the bat handle in her hand. "You'll want to watch this one."

Jennifer still looks smug, but with a shriek, Lydia stabs her in the same spot on her chest, driving the splintered end in with all her strength.

The woman laughs again. "The rumors about you are right, Lydia. You are crazy, because this is the definition of insanity, trying the same thing ov-" she coughs. A rim of black blood gathers at the corner of her mouth. "Wh-" she coughs again, and her features flicker, the scarred face of the Darach breaking through for a moment. Her eyes are wide when they meet Lydia's again, and a dark trickle drips from her nose.

Lydia allows herself to smile. "Oh, I wouldn't say I tried _exactly _the same thing..."

The teacher looks at her in horror for one long moment, and then with a scream collapses in Peter's hold, the hairless head of her true form twisting in agony and putrid liquid liquid spilling out around it.

After a moment, she falls still.

Lydia wipes her mouth and daintily steps out of reach of the pool of what used to be her substitute teacher. Peter climbs wearily to his feet, wiping goo from his shirt in disgust. "What in the name of sweet Jiminy Cricket was _that_?"

She gingerly fishes her knife off the floor and digs a wet wipe out of her purse to clean it. "She tried to make me eat mistletoe. So I spit it on the bat before I stabbed her with it." She shrugs and drops the dirty wipe on the floor. "Guess this banshee business is worth something after all."

He raises and eyebrow and smoothes his hair. "I'm impressed, Lydia. I knew I picked you for a reason."

For once, his words don't send a wash of fear through her. She cocks a hip instead. "Please, you were _lucky_ it was me out there."

He snorts and follows her towards the stairs. "As if. I totally planned it."

"You wish you could have planned something as fabulous as me."

"Um, only because I did."

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

And as Lydia Martin steps out of the storm cellar and up into the light where her friends are waiting, she finds she's smiling.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: So, this was only supposed to be a one-shot. But I just love Lydia/Peter ass-kicking snark! Oh well...

* * *

Lydia clenches her fingers tightly around the smooth leather of her steering wheel. "Siri, call Scott."

Her phone beeps accommodatingly, and after a moment, muted ringing fills the car.

She can hear the susurration of wind and Scott's heavy breathing. They must already be running. "Now's not a good time, Ly-"

"I need Peter's number."

There's a second of startled silence on the other line, before Scott says, "Uh, what?"

"Don't make me repeat myself."

She hears his breathing pick back up. "But...why?"

"If I wanted to explain myself, I would. Try thinking for two seconds and you'll figure it out. But we're wasting time. Give me Peter's number."

There's a moment of garbled wind, and then a heavier voice says, "I already called him."

Lydia blows through a stop sign, hoping there are no cops around because she does _not_ have time for that shit. "That's not what I asked, Derek. Number, please?"

After a moment where she can _feel_ the Alpha's glare through the phone, he reluctantly recites the digits.

This time the phone doesn't even ring. "If it isn't my favorite scream queen."

"Meet me at the Sports Authority." Lydia ends the call without waiting for a retort.

When she swerves into the parking lot, he's already leaning against a handicapped parking sign, swinging a brand new baseball bat in lazy circles. She decides not to throw him into the door when she peels out this time. That's progress, right?

He holds his silence for nearly a minute as they blast out of the parking lot and onto the road. "So, I assume there's a reason you pulled me out of Operation Pack Hale Saves Isaac?"

"It's a two-pronged attack."

Peter sighs. "Of course it is. But what makes you so certain?"

"Because this is too easy. It's never this easy. And Stiles isn't answering his phone."

His eyebrow climbs to dangerous heights. "I hate to be a Negative Nancy, but that could be because he's mid-Operation Pack Hale Sa-"

"Stiles always answers his phone. For me." She keeps her eyes on the road and fights down the color rising in her cheeks. "The probability of Gerard attempting such a blatant gamble without covering his tracks more thoroughly is less than-"

"Okay, spare me the song and dance, we all know about you get lady-wood for numbers. So you think Gerard kidnapped Isaac to cover up a second attack?"

Lydia tightens her grip on the steering wheel. "I think he's herding us. I am understandably sensitive to being _led_."

Peter snorts. "Yes, yes, poor Lydia got possessed a little, blah-blah-blah. But why not clue-in the pack?"

"I don't have time to waste trying to explain the subtleties of strategy to the whole freaking Brady Bunch. Gerard is two steps ahead of us, so you and I need to get ahead of _him_."

He raises an eyebrow. "We're going rogue?"

She reaches across to pat the bat handle lovingly. "Better. We're going _hunting_."

* * *

They swing by school and Lydia breaks into Stiles' gym locker for something that smells like him. It becomes apparent that this is a bad idea pretty much the second the door pops open. "Oh, gross! Ew, ew, ew, _ew…_"

Peter peers around her shoulder and immediately flinches back. "Has any of that been washed? _Ever_?"

She fishes a pen out of her purse and uses it to carefully spear a t-shirt. "This is good, right? The scent will be strong?"

The look on his face is vaguely green, which is hilarious because he kept a decomposing corpse in the back of his car once. "If you are expecting me to put my nose anywhere near that, you have got another thing coming, sweetheart. Seriously, what is it with you only hanging out with teenage boys these days? What happened to Allison? She's a lovely girl, very clean."

She grabs his wrist in one hand, and drags him out of the locker room, still holding the offending clothing gingerly in front of her. "You can be a baby later. Right now you have to find Stiles."

He sighs gustily. "You're a hard mistress, Lydia Martin."

She grins at him, three parts sass, one part iron. "You have _no_ idea."

* * *

As they fly along the back roads towards the south end of the state park, Lydia's phone rings.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Peter ducks his head back in the window, brushing his hair down. "He's sounds upset," he stage-whispers. "You should probably tell him."

She sighs. She knew Derek and his band of merry misfits would catch on eventually, but she'd hoped without Stiles there to help them, it would take a little longer. "We're covering your back."

"With Peter? Lydia, pull over."

Instead of answering directly, she guns the engine. "Relax, Derek. You have Scott and Allison and Cora to get Isaac back. I need to borrow your uncle."

"You can't trust him, and I can't protect you from here."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, because you were doing such a great job at protecting me before? Go get Isaac, call me when you're done."

She can hear Scott's muted voice, then a noise over the line like Derek is grinding his teeth. "...Have you heard from Stiles?"

Lydia snorts. "Precisely." She hangs up.

Peter is side-eyeing her from the passenger seat. "As much as I'm enjoying our little buddy-cop caper, it does beg the question why exactly you _are_ trusting me. Be honest, has my winning personality finally melted your heart of ice, or are you just trying to piss off my nephew?"

She shrugs easily. "Oh, don't make the mistake of thinking I trust you. Scott is a gullible idiot and even _he_ doesn't trust you. I'm the closest thing this town has to a certifiable genius, so give me some credit here. Our goals are temporarily aligned, and based on the dripping remains of the Darach, I think we make a particularly effective team. If I'm going up against Allison's crazy grandfather, I'm damn well going to make sure I _win_. If that means I have to put up with you, so be it."

He leans across the center console and into her personal space, running his nose along her cheek in a way that makes the fine hairs along her neck stand up. "And what makes you so sure I need you for my own goals? We're all alone, Derek can't protect you from all the way across town…"

She calmly removes an oversized can of Mace from the side-pocket of her car door and rests it lightly next to his eye. "Sheriff Stilinski was happy to loan me some police-grade pepper spray. He knows how important I am to his son." She lets the can sit there for a moment, then replaces it in the pocket. "You want to get rid of Gerard Argent. I want to get rid of Gerard Argent. Stop being so predictable and focus your evil superpowers on finding Stiles."

Unexpectedly, Peter laughs and leans back. "I am duly chastised. One Stiles Stilinski, coming up."

Lydia waits until his head is back out the window before relaxing.

Peter's nose leads them to the farthest border of the reservoir, because _of course_, so they park on a fire road. As Lydia hefts her new bat, she's reminded of the last time they did this. She sends a silent prayer out to the universe that only the bad guys get dead.

They trek for a long time through the damp moss while the sun sinks slowly towards the tree line, and the woods darken. Lydia occupies herself calculating her stride (around 26 inches), counting her steps in a minute (117 average), and estimating their speed (253.5 feet per minute, 1.3295 miles an hour) and approximate distance from her car (roughly 1.2 miles). It's better than letting her thoughts scrabble over what Gerard is planning for Derek, for them, for Stiles. Lydia has an IQ of 147, she knows how to make her brain shut up.

Peter halts them in a clump of trees just as the sun tips the edge of the tree line. "Okay, we've got a bunch of hunters down the bank from us, across the stream. Stiles is with them, but not Gerard."

She waits for him to continue. "So? What's the plan? Bat and claws again?"

Peter sighs like she is the _worst_. "I never repeat a trick. Plus," he looks chagrined, "there are a lot of them. Like maybe more than we can handle."

She feels her heart speed up. "But we have to! Stiles-"

He holds up a hand. "Did I say we were giving up? No. So don't get your lacy little panties in a twist. We'll wait for the sun to set a bit more - I'm sure they have night-vision goggles, but they don't work when you're dealing more with spotted shadows than actual darkness, so we'll have a window before it gets totally dark. Once it's safer to get close enough to see what we're dealing with, we can plan."

She doesn't like the open-ended part, but it will have to do. "It won't be dark enough for another," she eyes the horizon, "ten minutes at least."

He sighs and flops down on the cold ground like an overgrown puppy. "So we wait."

Reluctantly, she settles herself a few feet away and tries to relax her muscles. For a few minutes they're quiet - Lydia checks the position of her trusty knife and pepper spray, and Peter does whatever he does when his eyes are closed. Plots world domination? Imagines her naked? Meditates? Who knows.

She's just decided he's asleep when he cracks an eye at her. "What is it with you and Stilinski, anyway? Have you finally given in to his epic love?"

She doesn't like Peter talking about Stiles. _She_ doesn't even like talking about Stiles. "No. He's my friend, and he's in trouble."

Peter snorts. "I have a magical werewolf lie detector. Try again, sweetheart."

She glares in his direction. "He is! Stiles is... Stiles has always been there. I can't let anything happen to him." She runs her pink fingernails against the rubber grip of her bat. "If Gerard hurts him..."

Peter props himself up on one elbow, looking uncharacteristically sober. "Stiles is in my pack, Lydia. I like the kid, I do. I just want to know how far you're willing to go, here. Because when it all shakes out, we might not be able to free him, and that will put Gerard in a better place to set terms."

Lydia frowns, letting her hand settle around the bat, reassuring herself. "I'm good at improvising. And Stiles is, too. You get me to him, we'll be okay."

He sighs. "Have you considered that Stiles might not be the only bait?"

She frowns. "Did you smell someone else down there? Cora?"

He rolls his eyes. "For such a smart girl, you can be really oblivious. What I meant was, if Gerard gets his hands on _you_, it will put him in a better place to deal with _Stiles_."

A fist of ice clenches around her throat because she knows, okay. She _knows _Stiles would do anything to protect her. He's stupid like Scott that way. She tries not to think of Scott-Allison parallels, of the kiss in the locker room before everything in her life had gone to hell, of pushing his shoulders into the icy water so he would _die_. Instead she swallows twice and brushes dirt off her jeans. "Perhaps Gerard should consider what I might do to protect Stiles. I have a rather more impressive arsenal than he does."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "There's no way he would know about-" he gestures in the vicinity of her head.

She raises an eyebrow. "What, my hair care regimen?" When he makes a face, she smiles grimly. "The only people who know about my… circumstance are either in the pack, or dead."

He raises an eyebrow. "Maybe we have a better chance than I anticipated." He eyes the sky. "Okay, I think we're safe to start. Stay close, stay quiet."

She lets him pull her to her feet, and they move quickly into the trees. Every step sounds like a gunshot in the silence, but she reminds herself that hunters only have human hearing. Peter leads her on a halting, zigzag route steadily downhill, until he pushes her down behind a clump of bushes and peeks over. "I see Stiles. No Gerard. Twelve... No, thirteen hunters."

"So? The plan?"

He pops back up to survey the scene, then glances behind them. "How good are you at climbing trees?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He shrugs. "You said you needed to get close to Stiles. There's no way we make it through that many hunters without waiting for the rest of the pack. You want to get close, the only way is up." He points at the canopy of oaks around them. "We never use trees, so hunters don't watch them. Oh hey, you aren't a wolf! So. Trees."

She follows his finger. If she can get into the tree to their right, it crosses branches with two more, the last of which has a limp figure tied around its base. There's blood on his face and his shirt is ripped, but Stiles is alive and that is all Lydia cares about.

It takes a moment to gather her courage. She's never been afraid of heights, but the climbing wall in gym class is entirely different than crossing tree branches above deadly killers with no safety net. Only… it's Stiles over there. He would do it for her. "You'll have to give me a boost."

Peter nods. "Stay on the thick branches, they won't rustle as much. You're instinct will be to go slowly, but we don't have time for that. Once you get the kid loose, give him something to fight with. I'll draw the hunters off, you deal with anyone who stays behind, then make a break for the car. Meet up back at the loft."

She thrusts the bat through her belt, and Peter kneels, making a cup with his hands. She pulls off her shoes and socks, and as she places a foot into his grasp, he meets her eyes squarely. "I'm going to hate it when we have to be enemies again. Now remember, go quickly." And then he flings her up into the air.

She barely swallows a shriek, but he has thrown her high enough that she's easily able to get a leg over the nearest branch. For a breathless moment she struggles to get the rest of her body onto the branch with the minimum of noise, but once she's up, it's wide enough for her to stand. _Don't look down_, she instructs herself. If she holds onto the limbs above her, she almost feels stable, so she traces her course, takes and deep breath, and runs, bare feet silent on the bark.

Eleven heartbeats later and she's there, gripping the trunk with all her might, desperately trying to muffle her panting breath. Stiles is tied below her, around the other side of the tree, but she's still a good ten feet above him, with no lower branches. The nearest hunter is still near Stiles on the far side of the tree, so when he looks down to check the tension in his bowstring, she grips her branch in both hands, says another prayer to the universe and swings down. Her feet barely make a noise when they hit the trunk, but she sees Stiles start. No time. She sights for a clear spot among the roots, and drops. This landing is less silent, but as she crouches in the shadows she hears one of the hunters ask a question, and Stiles' low answer. The hunter laughs and moves off. Now or never.

"Stiles," she whispers as loudly as she dares. "It's me, stay still." Then her knife is out and sawing through the thick ropes as quickly as she can without making noise. When the last rope is cut, she holds them loosely together with one hand and glances behind her. In the bushes back by her first tree, two glowing blue eyes peer back at her. She flashes a thumbs-up, and the eyes disappear.

Lydia hates to lose her favorite weapon, but Stiles is on the lacrosse team (at least nominally) and can probably do more damage, so she slides the bat carefully around the tree, until the handle rests next to his left hand.

Suddenly, a crackle of static echoes across the clearing and she immediately presses herself flush against the rough bark of the trunk. "I've got something here, looks like a wolf. They're moving! Position four, nearing position three."

A tall hunter cocks his weapon and flips on his walkie-talkie. "That's the signal! A-unit head out, B-unit to the south. Everyone on C, stay here and wait for Gerard. You know what to do. Let's roll, boys!"

There's a flurry of movement, as coordinated groups of men charge off into the trees or drive away on ATVs. Soon, the clearing is empty save for some scattered guards, eyes trained into the surrounding darkness, no night-vision goggles on yet. Back pressed tightly against the tree, Lydia holds her breath.

In the hurry, one of the hunters has actually passed unknowingly behind her hiding spot to watch the edge of the clearing. She releases the cut ropes and eases to her feet, pepper spray in one hand, knife in the other. Her bare feet are silent on the pine needles, and Lydia begins to understand why Kali never wore shoes, though it doesn't excuse the state of her toenails. She pulls the neck of her shirt up over her nose before tapping the guard on the shoulder, and when he turns, she gives him a blast of Mace right between the eyes. She'd read somewhere that a close, sustained shot of pepper spray directly to the face can blind you for life. She doesn't feel bad.

He screams and falls to the ground, but she's already running back towards Stiles. She sprays another hunter who crosses her path, and then someone gets smart and starts actually shooting. It happens so quickly, she's almost too surprised to react, but that small part of her brain that is always terrified sends her diving behind the tree.

There's a yelp from Stiles and then a wet crunch and the shooting stops. For a moment, the only sound is her panicked breathing, and then Stiles calls, "Lydia?"

"Oh thank god," she whispers, and climbs to her feet. "I'm here!"

She rounds the tree, and there's Stiles, bat hanging from limp fingers and blood running down his arm. His expression is tired, but lights up when he sees her, in that way she likes to pretend doesn't give her butterflies. But suddenly his smile turns to terror and he throws out a hand and yells her name as an arm wraps around her neck and there's a gun barrel pressed to her temple and there goes _that_ plan.

"Hello, children." Gerard Argent smiles down at her like she's a freaking kitten or something. "Why don't you drop your weapons?"

As she divests herself of pepper spray and knife, Lydia wonders if it is more annoying to be caught by Allison's creepy old grandpa or that Peter was right.

"You too, Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles is still gripping the bat, his eyes wide, so wide, and trained on the gun. It's probable that he's debating doing something heroic that will get them both killed. Or is he having a panic attack? Neither of these outcomes are acceptable. "Stiles," she says, trying to keep her voice light. "It's okay."

His eyes flick to meet hers, and he drops the bat mechanically. Gerard doesn't move his arm from her neck, but he laughs and coughs and she feels a fine mist of black blood spatter on her face. Ew. "Wonderful, how very compliant. You make my job so much easier. If you're thinking you'll be rescued by your little friends, I'm afraid I've placed enough hunters between them and us to keep them rather occupied for a while. So let's just relax, and have a chat while we wait. You two have been up to such exciting adventures since we last met! Alpha packs and dark druids, what a world. And how is my favorite true Alpha doing? I thought that might cause contention in the pack but it seems friendship wins the day again. What do you kids call it? 'Bromance'?"

Stiles swallows hard. "What do you want, Gerard?"

The old man coughs on a laugh again. "War, my boy. _War_. Scott's not old enough or experienced enough as an Alpha to control himself, not like he thinks he is. He'll do all manner of things to save his best friend. So I need you alive, but I only need _her_ alive as long as she keeps _you_ in line." He nods behind him and another squad of hunters tromps into the clearing, more than had been there before. "Stay still now," he orders kindly, and then the nearest hunter presses a thumb to the bullet hole in Stiles' arm.

His scream of pain whites out Lydia's brain for a second, and when she comes back to herself, Gerard's grip on her neck is the only thing keeping her up. She gets her feet back under her but it's harder than it should be, because suddenly she is aware of _everything_. She can feel the air moving as Stiles pants hoarsely, she can hear the trees around them growing, millimeter by millimeter. The sky feels like it is pressing in on her. It is hard to think. Is this what ADD is like? Is this how Stiles feels all the time?

But she knows it's not, because she can also tell that though Gerard's grip is tight around her neck, his muscles are trembling and there's a film of black sludge gathering in the corners of his eyes. She can sense his lungs straining to pump air in and out, around the thick ropes of mountain ash building up in his veins. His blood is _singing to her_ and suddenly everything around her quiets.

Lydia turns in his grasp, looking past the gun now pressed to her forehead to meet Gerard's curious gaze. "Do you know what you've done?" He blinks at her but she continues, noting in a detached sort of way how steady her voice is, how low. "You've been out of the game for a while, Gerard. Scott isn't the only one you have to fear. Do you know who I am?"

The sky is pressing down so hard that she can _feel_ it against her skin like water. Tree branches groan and stretch out to her. Birds scatter into the air and flee, worms writhe in the dirt under her toes. The air stills. "Do you know what you have brought down on yourself?"

The elderly hunter stares back at her in surprise, but he still doesn't seem to understand what Lydia already knows. He winces slightly and releases her neck to grip his left arm as if in pain.

In one move, she shoves the gun away from her face and takes a breath. The world breathes with her.

Lydia screams.

* * *

Abruptly, there is silence.

Lydia looks up from the corpse at her feet. Coolly, she eyes the hunters all frozen before her. "Now you run," she advises. In a flurry of dropped weapons and booted feet, they do.

The sky isn't pressing on her anymore, so Lydia steps carefully over Gerard's body. Her balance is a little off, but her hands are steady as she reclaims her abandoned weapons.

Stiles is still standing where he'd dropped the bat, one hand absently pressed to the wound in his arm. He doesn't react as she picks her way over to him.

She doesn't know what to say. What is there, in a situation like this? One hand reaches out of its own accord and nearly brushes his bloody arm before drawing back. "Are-" her voice comes out wobbly and she swallows hard. "Are you okay?"

He blinks at her. And then she's crushed in a hug that smells only slightly better than that gym locker, but she doesn't care even one-tenth of one percent about that. "Yeah," he says, and his voice is just as shaky as hers. "Yeah, I'm okay." He draws back, and only belatedly seems to notice the carnage in the clearing around them. "We should probably go now."

They run.

It's harder now that the sun has set. If Lydia had been in her right mind at the time, they could have snatched night-vision goggles from their downed foes, but it's too late now. They stumble over roots and splash through streams and her bare feet feel like they've been slashed to ribbons, but she grits her teeth and keeps running because about three minutes ago they crossed paths with one of the hunter teams that had left before Gerard died, and they apparently didn't get the message to abandon ship.

She trips twice, but Stiles hauls her up by the back of her jacket before she even hits the ground and they keep running. A bullet zips past her ear, which must mean that they've fallen into gun range of their pursuers, but the car is straight ahead, she can see it through the trees. "There!" she pants, and they pour on the speed, even though someone is definitely going to get shot in the time it takes to get the door open. Her brain whirs frantically, trying to calculate an angle of approach that will keep them out of sight-line for those crucial seconds, but she still hasn't come up with anything as they pound into the open air of the parking lot.

And then Peter lands on the roof of the car, fully wolfed-out, blue eyes blazing. "_Down!_" he roars, and Lydia hits the pavement so hard her teeth clack together. Stiles lands half on top of her a second later, just as a body whistles overhead. There's a snarl and some scattered gunfire, and Stiles basically throws her into the car and she peels out of the parking lot before he even gets his door closed.

A bullet shatters the back windshield and dings off her side mirror, but then they're rocketing down the fire road and out of the park and soon the only sound is the engine, the shush of the wind through the shattered window, and their heavy breathing.

"Holy shit," Stiles says, and then with more feeling, "_Holy shit._"

* * *

Back in the Hale loft, Lydia sits on the couch and watches Allison bandaging Stiles' arm, while Scott flits around him like a desperate puppy. Now that they're all safe, the adrenaline drain has left her feeling empty and exhausted. It's all she can do to stay upright.

A weight settles next to her, and she watches disinterestedly as a pair of boots prop themselves up on the coffee table. "Where's all that you-go-girl self-congratulation from a decisive victory? You were like a one-woman version of the Spice Girls movie last time."

She summons all her energy and manages to raise an eyebrow. "What would you know about the Spice Girls movie?"

Peter matches her eyebrow raise. "I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want? Please, I'm a reincarnated werewolf, not a _leper_."

Letting her head flop back against the couch cushions, Lydia sighs. "Can't you go bother someone else?"

He bats his eyelashes at her. "But Lydia, I'm worried about you…"

She does not dignify this with a response. After a moment, he groans and turns to face her. "Okay, look. I know I'm not your favorite person in the world. I might not even make the top ten, which is demeaning, let me tell you. But we just saved the boy and killed the baddie and instead of celebrating with the pack, you look like someone shredded your Manolos."

Lydia frowns, and fiddles with the bandages on her right heel, leftovers from the mad barefoot dash through the forest. "That's not true. My top ten favorite people in the world are all dead mathematical theoreticians, and I wear Steve Madden." She raises her chin and examines her cuticles. "We've been paired up a bunch lately, and that's whatever. But we both know you're going to betray us all in the end, so I'd prefer to skip the buddy-buddy bonding time and keep a little dignity, if it's all the same to you. Thanks, but no thanks."

After a moment, his weight rises off the couch. "If that's the way you want to play it, I defer to your judgment, Ms. Martin."

She wonders later what it was he was offering.


End file.
